


Serenity

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, my ultimate endgame for Sansa tbh, please let it be canon george
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Littlefinger <em>had</em> said she would marry Harry the heir after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serenity

_She shrugs the cloak off._

_The wedding cloak with tiny neat blue stitches sewn by Sansa's own hands in the shape of a falcon, and a huge white moon encompassing it that signifed everything Littlefinger held dear. All of his plans, all of his ambition and glory, all tied to this flimsy cloak that pools around her feet as awestruck lords look on._

_"I do not wish to marry this man." Her hair, the red roots finally grown through, tumbles down her back as she steps away from the blonde boy with lust in his gaze. "I... I only  wish to go home. As Lord Eddard's daughter, please help me get home."_

_Littlefinger, mouth working noiselessly as his hand clamps down on her wrist. A lock, a trap, he was never anything but a snare to her-_

Sansa wakes stiffly, nails needling her palms and chest aching on the cusp of a sob. It takes her a moment, pushing back the furs and bedsheets with trembling legs to remember she was Alayne no more. No dark hair, no lies, no Littlefinger. Littlefinger was  _gone,_ and if only she could  _forget-_

She sits up and exhales slowly, rubbing her watery eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown. She is lucky her husband cannot see, for darkness cloaks her skin; the fire in the grate has long since died, with only dull crimson sparks flickering in the embers. 

"Sansa?" He mumbles.

Sansa prays the depths of sleep will drag him under again, and purses her lips to avoid answering. If she doesn't answer, he'll think she's asleep and merely restless. Many a morning she has woken with her legs tangled with his, hair mussed and pillows in disarray. His hand clumsily slides along the crumpled sheets, feeling the absense of her body and she sighs softly. She didn't mean to disturb him; most nights it is enough to sleep with a warm body beside her, but some nights when the memories creep through- 

Sansa slides out of bed silent as a wolf, padding softly across the chamber to pour a goblet of honeyed wine. She takes a long time pouring out the liquid and bringing the cup to her lips. She savours the sweetness that sticks to her tongue, wondering when she would ever think of her past and not be bitter. Littlefinger had taken everything from her, he betrayed Father and abused Jeyne and  _kissed_ her, petted her body and tried to sell her off to be a prisoner in another unhappy and unwanted marriage. What was it he had told her, that time he was too tipsy?  _A bastard is never expected to have their maidenhood on their wedding night._ She shudders, goosebumps creeping on clammy skin exposed too long to the night air. She longs to creep back under the covers, curl her cold feet in between her husband's and drift to sweet dreams with his arm around hers, but she cannot shake the malaise that hangs heavy. She drains the last dregs of the wine, gazing across the bedchamber. 

Karhold is so very Northern, from the rugged wooden furniture well-worn and time-tested to the soft animal furs draped across the stone floor and the sweet fragranced herbs twined in bunches high above the wooden beams. A faded blanket from two generations back lies folded over the back of a plumply stuffed armchair Sansa spends many minutes relaxing in after the day is done; her sewing lies abandoned in the seat, needles glinting in the moonlight shining through the windows. A wicker basket of logs sits beside the chair and the fire which sorely needed reigniting.

There are no fancy Myrish carpets here, no notion of the lavish finery in homes down South, though small pieces creep through. A chipped vase of flowers upon a side table, a shock of bright yellow. Glass perfume bottles of amber, jade and cerulean delicately sat atop one dresser. A looking glass hung upon the far wall, reflecting the bed where her husband slumbers. It drips of history, these hallowed walls, with the wooden carvings emblazoned on bedposts and shelves, the tiny whittled family of direwolves in a line three, two, one on the top of one sturdy bookshelf. Sansa certainly feels sturdier in the North, back _home,_ in a land where there is little pretence and falsities. A simple life, ordinary and comforting in its plainness. After the horrors the South brought her, Sansa has no desire to go beyond the Neck ever again. What had the South brought her, except pain and misery and death?

So much _death._

Let her live easily amongst the hard rock and ancient trees of the Northern countryside, the wind stirring her hair and bringing colour to her cheeks, the scent of fir trees and winter roses clinging to her skin as she walked down paths lined with berries and wildflowers with not a care in the world. Let her grow old, with wrinkles erasing the youth so many sought to abuse, watching her own children grow and knowing, _hoping_  they shall not go through what she did. They will never know the pain of losing a Mother too soon, she is sure of that. The Gods owe her some happiness, do they not? They take and take, Lady and Father and Mother and Robb - Let her forget all the wicked games nobles play, the innocents they abuse and tear down, the war  and bloodshed that ensues. Let her forget it all, and be at peace. No more pain; no more nightmares.

She sighs deeply, for try as she might she cannot outrun herself. Oh, she can hide and lie and pretend the last years never happened, but she sees suspicion in near everyone's gaze and still cannot find herself to trust easily. She cannot escape the thoughts that plague her, the crippling nerves that leave her paranoid and shaky, that lead her to hide away in some corner far away from her husband's eyes.  

She meets his gaze now as he rouses himself fully, shaking off his state of half-slumber when he finally registers her absence. They've gotten used to each others bodies heating the other abed, and he frowns sleepily at her across the room. It makes Sansa smile; he is so alert and on guard during the day to see his brow furrowed and eyes bleary is a change. He looks younger with his hair ruffled so, and  _sweet._

"You must be freezing." He hides a yawn behind one hand, lazily throwing the covers aside. "Come back to bed." 

She doesn't protest his order, for she  _is_ cold, and after a brief pause to throw a log onto the fire she scampers across the floor to fall into their nest of pillows and cushions, blankets and furs. She'll soon warm up, with Harrion's hands hot on her hips and his breath unfurling across her cheeks as she wriggles her way into the middle of the bed. She gazes up at him, silently brushing a lock away from his forehead. He is still too thin about the face for Sansa's liking, though compared to the gaunt man she'd first seen moons ago he'd improved tremendously. She drops her hand down and curls them into the small hot space between their bodies. Minutes slip by, silent and safe in one another's company, and Sansa lets herself relax with the steady rise and fall of Harrion's chest in unison with her own soft breathes. Her eyelids are heavy, the wine doing its job, and she sighs, nuzzling closer to him. 

"When I was in Harrenhal I paced back and forth all day long." Harrion says huskily, and Sansa's heart skips a beat at the thought. "I barely slept. I walked all along the battlements cursing myself, thinking I'd let everyone down. The heir to Karhold, captured in his first battle by a hedge knight."

He grimaces slightly, though he is honest enough in conversation to admit that the man who took him had skill beyond his own. He is so honest, brutally so, and Sansa knows that is one of the reasons she first found herself attracted to this man who cares not one whit about offending someone if his opinion differs. It was he alone that didn't try to woo her with marriage contracts when first returned North, too anxious to check upon his remaining family after his time as a hostage for House Lannister. Just like her, and she had watched him ride away from Winterfell thinking she shared more experiences with this near-stranger than almost anyone else. He is so familiar to her now she finds it bizarre she once regarded him as such, he who had draped a cloak over her shoulders before the Heart tree in Winterfell, he who had kissed her so awkwardly on their wedding night for it had been a long time, he told her after, that he'd kissed another, he who shares his bed and home and heart with her.  

"I still dream of it." He continues.

He knows, Sansa marvels, he always seems to _know._  Whatever strange mood takes her, whatever memory that ails or thought that persists he seems to know just from one look at her face what she is thinking. In Kings Landing she had armed herself with courtsey, polished lies to perfection so nobody knew the truth of her thoughts yet here in the North after all of it...

"Am I such a poor liar?" She whispers, hair shifting lazily over her shoulders as he cups her cheeks with calloused hands. Eyes wet with the emotion that swells in her chest, she inhales thickly. "You see me so clearly, when nobody down South ever did." 

"I know  _you._ " Harrion says gently, thumbs catching the teardrops that tremble on Sansa's eyelashes. "And I know a little of what you went through, so I know you have nightmares that don't go away easily."

He never minces his words, never presents them sugar-coated with a smile, and Sansa nods into his hands welcoming his touch upon hers. Her skin seems to sing from his touch, delightful shivers reaching the tips of her toes curled up in between his legs, and there is no place she would rather be.  

"I know." Voice wistful, "I wish they would."

"We just need to make better memories for you to to dream." His answer is so extrodinary simple, and Sansa's lips curl up into a smile.

She can recall so clearly the day after arriving in Karhold, mounting horses to explore the land that was his - and now hers too. Standing atop a ridge, hair blowing wildly in the wind, she breathed in deep lungfuls of pure fresh air because it was the first time since the events in Kings Landing she truly felt able to  _breathe._ She remembers how they walked through woods dotted with wildflowers he picked and tucked behind her ear, how the day after they went meeting the smallfolk at the village market. Drinking hot blackberry juice, she learnt all of their stories and vowed to be a good lady to them, and seeing how they adored Harrion she knew it would be pleasant and not hard at all to care about their wellbeing. That day and every day after, befriending her good-sister Alys and her husband Sigorn and their beautiful children, getting to know every servant at Karhold, falling more in love with this man she married. All the nights spent sleeping beside him, waking up to watch the sun creep over the horizon with his arms warm around her, all the times she presses her lips to his and fears she may burst from the love that swells deep in the pit of her stomach...

"You already give me better memories, everyday."

She remembers being so young and foolish that she thought only by marrying a Prince and becoming Queen, with songs sung of her beauty, she could be happy. Stupid, she was so stupid. Where else better would she thrive then the North? It was deep within her blood, it was a part of her as vital as her heart or lungs, and to think she could have ended up trapped in that golden city surrounded by lions at every turn makes her stomach turn. She swallows back the nausea that was ever frequent these days, and instead entangles her slim fingers into her husband's large ones, squeezing gently. 

She never wanted to be Queen after the horrors she was subjected to from the royal family. Oh there was talk of it, as she rode to Winterfell in the wake of Sansa's alter plea, of marrying a boy named Aegon who called himself King. Sansa had firmly put a stop to any notion of it, for she wanted to be Queen as much as she wanted to be Lady Lannister, as much as she was almost wife to Harrold Hardyng. She had prayed to the Old Gods in thanks when the annulment had been delivered, snowflakes melting in her hair, for she was finally free from all the games. No more forced marriages by people who wanted the worst for her at their own gain, not caring of her own thoughts and feelings. She knew Bran would never make her marry against her will, and though the offers kept coming it was Sansa who decided, who chased, who offered her own heart in the end. How would she trust a man who lusted for her first? Sansa had been a wolf, stealthily hunting her prey down, and when she'd asked if he would make her his wife Harrion had smiled his secret smile for her and Sansa wondered if he'd not known her thoughts all along. He knows her better then she knows herself, and now she grins up at him.  

"Well, I wouldn't be much of a husband if I didn't." Harrion says lightly, and she yelps with surprise when he suddenly rolls so she's lying below him.

The covers brush against her head as light as butterfly wings, the fire beyond bathing their bodies in warm amber hues. They are in their own world here beneath the blankets, cocooned together shielded from those who would cause her harm. How could she think of things so awful, with her husband gazing at her with devotion so clear it makes her stomach clench with love? Eyes twinkling, his legs pressed against hers, hands stroking her hips. So lovely, and she hums under her throat with satisfaction as he stares at her, eyes so clear she can see her own reflection, lips parted and eyes wide. He kisses her while she giggles, lips gentle and searching against hers. She falls into his touch, sinking further down into the fat pillows, time slipping through her fingers as she loses herself in his touches. He caresses her like a delicate painting, scared to spoil the ink. Like she's a treasure of inmeasurable fortune, and when they finally part she has to pull back the covers lest she suffocate. He chuckles as she makes a show of tossing her hair back from her slick skin, kicking cushions and furs further back down the bed with legs weak from his show of affection. 

"Are you warm now?" He asks, hand drawing idle circles on the small of her back when she settles herself beside him, squirming to get comfortable.

She nods, taking his hands and draping them over her shoulders to rest lightly against her abdomen. She wonders whether she should tell him she's missed her moonblood for the second time, that for the last three mornings she's been unable to keep her food down longer then an hour... soon. She'll tell him soon, and the thought of a child half of her and half of him running around Karhold brings tears to her eyes she quickly blinks away lest he realise and ask why. Let her keep it a secret a while longer. It is his nameday soon, she can give him another gift. She entertains her thoughts with visions of babes heavy in the crook of her arm, big eyes gazing up at her, tiny plump legs kicking out... He'll be a good Father, she is certain. There is a fear crawling deep within her that her children will suffer the same fate she had, but she is too comfortable to possibly confront it now, and she can only think of how Harry's body fits so perfectly with hers, that his extra training in the practise yard has paid off for his muscles have never felt finer, that she loves this bed with its cozy cushions and rugged inhabitant.     

"I love you." She whispers, as her eyelids grow heavier. She wants, needs to say it before she falls into the land of dreams once more.  "Thank you."

_Thank you for waking and comforting me as you so often do.  Thank you for always understanding and never losing patience._

"I love you too." He rumbles, pressing a kiss in between her shoulder blades. 

_Thank you for loving me back._

Tomorrow she'll break her fast in bed with Harrion, lazily dripping honey onto thick slabs of bread, glazing her fingers with the sticky sweet food as it oozes over the crust. She'll watch Harry and Sigorn spar with little Rickard, Alys beside her cheering her son on. She'll write a letter to Bran and Rickon and Arya in Winterfell to let them know they remain in her thoughts. Perhaps she'll wander along the forest and pick a bunch of fresh wildflowers for her husband, for no reason other that she loved him. She'll watch the newborn lambs grazing in the fields and converse with the grizzled farmer who had lost his only son at the wedding that claimed her brother's life, she'll ride to the Grey Cliffs and walk barefooted along the shore with footprints imprinted on the damp sand, she'll visit the market and pay double the cost for yarn as everyone had suffered through winter and it is the least she can do. She'll walk arm in arm with her husband around their home, talking of nothing at all and everything, and they'll pass their day quietly and calmly, with the spring sun shining with promise above them. So many possiblities, so many places to explore and people to meet and care for, so many choices when before she would never think of experiencing such a thing. 

She falls asleep clutching Harrion's hand tight, and the next time Littlefinger dares invade her dreams she will muster the courage to laugh in his face as she had not in life, for she had she gone through with his plans and married Harry the heir after all -just not the one he nor anyone expected. 


End file.
